ironed and
smoothly folded, on the day when he expected his friends. Vjera, her face
pale with distress, passed her arm through his and made as though she
would walk with him down the gentle slope of the street, which leads in
the direction of the older city. He suffered himself to be led a few steps
in silence.

"Where are you going, Vjera?" he asked, stopping again and looking into
her face.

"Wherever you like," she said, trying to speak cheerfully. She saw that
something terrible was happening, and it was only by a desperate effort
that she controlled the violent hysterical emotion that rose like a great
lump in her throat.

"Ah, that is it, Vjera," he answered. "That is it. Where shall I go,
child?" Then he laughed nervously. "The fact is," he continued, "that I am
in a very absurd position. I do not at all know what to do."

Perhaps he had tried to give himself courage by the attempt to laugh, but,
in that case, he had failed for the present. In spite of his words his
despair was evident. His usually erect carriage was gone. His head sank
wearily forward, his shoulders rounded themselves as though under a
burden, his feet dragged a little as he tried to walk on again, and he
leaned heavily on the young girl's arm.

"What is it?" she asked. "Tell me--perhaps I can help you--I mean--I beg
your pardon," she added, humbly, "perhaps it would help you to speak of
it. That sometimes makes things seem clearer just when they have been most
confused."

"Perhaps so, Vjera, perhaps so. You are a very good girl, and you came
just in time. I love you, Vjera--do not forget that I love you." His voice
was by turns sharp and suddenly low and monotonous, like that of a man
talking in sleep. Altogether his manner was so strange that poor Vjera
feared the very worst. The extremity of her anxiety kept her from losing
her self-possession. For the first time in her life she felt that she was
the stronger of the two, and that if he was to be saved it must be by her
efforts rather than by anything he was now able to do for himself. She
loved him, mad or sane, with an admiration and a devotion which took no
account of his intellectual state except to grieve over it for his own
sake. The belief that in this crisis she might be of use to him, strongly
conquered the rising hysterical passion, and drove the tears so far from
her eyes that she wondered vaguely why she had been so near to shedding
them a few moments sooner. She pressed hi